The False and the Fair
by kgregs
Summary: This is the story of Lyra Stark, eldest daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark; twin sister of Robb Stark; betrothed of Lord Renly Baratheon; the Winter Rose, whom misfortune seems to follow like a shadow. Renly/OC at first and later Theon/OC, although neither will be happy relationships.
1. A Lone Wolf in a Den of Lions

_A/N: My muse struck, and I just had to take a crack at writing a Game of Thrones fic. Just some info to set up this story: it begins about a month before the start of the events of Game of Thrones - so about a month, give or take, before the death of Jon Arryn. My OC, Lyra Stark, is Robb's twin sister. (I know, I like making OCs that are sisters of actual people/characters. It's kind of an easy way out but I like the possibilities it creates.) I'll mostly be following the plot of the TV show, but I will favor some of the things that happen in the books. I hope you enjoy, and please take a second to drop a review at the end!_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but Lyra Stark and my own elements of the plot. Everything else belongs to George R.R. Martin. Title credit also goes to Martin, as "The False and the Fair" is the name of a song in the world of A Song of Ice and Fire._

**Chapter One**

King's Landing was even more remarkable than Lyra Stark had imagined. But it was not nearly as beautiful as she had hoped.

Building upon building were piled atop one another as far as the eye could see, cramped and crowded and wasting not a single square foot of space across the vast expanse of the city. Shops on top of taverns, inns across from brothels, granaries and storehouses and manses and all manner of establishments lining narrow filthy streets and dark alleyways, and all of them sloping ever upward toward the three great hills of Visenya, Rhaenys, and Aegon the Conqueror. Lyra wondered what those great Targaryens would think now of the city they had founded 300 years ago, with the Dragonpit lying in collapsed ruin and the crowned stag of House Baratheon flying high above the Red Keep. _Heads would roll, for a certainty._

"I never thought I'd be so happy to see King's Landing," Hallis Mollen admitted. "Welcome to your new home, Lady Lyra."

Lyra sent Hal a somber smile. Her lord father Eddard Stark had charged the guardsman with seeing her safely to the capital, some 500 leagues south of her true home: Winterfell. More than a fortnight their small company had traveled on horseback down the Kingsroad, but now that they had finally reached their journey's end Lyra shared no part in Hal's relief. Instead, a sense of dread grew in the pit of her stomach. Soon Hal and the rest would turn back to the North, and she would be truly cut loose from all she had ever known, a lone Wolf in a den of Lions and Stags.

"I'm afraid it will be quite awhile before I can call King's Landing home, Hal."

"I think not," Hal returned with a grin. "Tell me, how often did you retreat to the Library Tower to read every tale written about the War of Conquest and daydream of skies filled with dragons?"

"Too often, if you ask my mother," Lyra admitted. "But the dragons are all dead now, and I'm afraid there's nothing left to see here but greed and filth."

Hal's grin widened. "With respect, my lady, I believe you've become as humorless as your father."

No response came from Lyra; the Kingsroad had ended at last, and her eyes were drawn up in wonderment at the massive gate that ushered their entrance into the city—the Dragon Gate. It was one of seven that entered King's Landing, and its russet-colored archway towered above Lyra's head, far higher than any gate at Winterfell. She trembled as she gazed up at its might; whether from fear or excitement, she wasn't certain.

"Good morning!" Hal guided his horse forward to meet the armored guards standing watch on either side of the entryway. Each carried an iron cudgel and wore black ringmail and cloaks of heavy wool dyed gold, the garb of the City Watch of King's Landing. "We wish to be granted entrance to the city."

"Who's _we?_" a gruff voice spat. It belonged to an equally gruff-looking man. Coarse dark whiskers stubbled his jaw, and unlike the others he donned a black breastplate ornamented with four golden disks. Lyra figured he was the captain. The way his eyes lingered made her uncomfortable.

Hal sat up straighter in his saddle, his broad shoulders pushed back and his chest thrust proudly forward as he gave his answer. "Lady Lyra Stark, betrothed of Lord Renly Baratheon, brother to King Robert and Master of Laws of King's Landing."

Lyra hid her grin at Hal's unnecessarily flamboyant introduction, but it communicated his point; the captain's brow softened as he realized his grave mistake. "Oh yes, of course." He nodded to one of the guards. "Let them pass. Welcome to King's Landing, Lady Stark."

Lyra's expression remained a stoic mask. Hal was right—she was her father's daughter. "Thank you," she returned, and the gaze of every guardsman followed as she led her party through the Dragon Gate. Once safely out of earshot, she cast a wry grin back at Hal. "I think they know who Lord Renly is."

"It was for affect, my lady," he reasoned with another of his crooked smirks. Lyra mirrored the gesture, but her grin faded fast. The Red Keep loomed like a mountain in the distance, and soon she would meet her betrothed for the very first time.

The road to the castle was broad, dusty, and crowded, and they advanced down it slowly. Curious inhabitants of the city stared up at Lyra and whispered in each other's ears—she swore she heard her family name uttered once, and then again, and then a third time. Had word spread so quickly to the smallfolk of Lord Renly's betrothal? It would certainly explain the cold, jealous glares more than just a few of the young girls sent her way.

On they rode, around the charred remains of the Dragonpit, above the slums of Flea Bottom, down the Street of the Sisters, past the Guildhall of the Alchemists, and finally down the long stretch of road that led straight to the Red Keep. From its perch atop Aegon's High Hill the castle's seven drum-towers stood like giants over the city, their iron ramparts patrolled day and night by the watchful eye of the Kingsguard. It was impressive, but notably smaller than the sprawling ancient grounds of Winterfell. Nevertheless, Lyra was certain that what the Red Keep lacked in size it more than made up for in secret passageways and underground corridors. _And the dragon skulls_, she thought. _I must see those._

It was a long climb up the final hill, and at its crest stood the bridge to the castle gatehouse. Any thoughts of dragons fled Lyra's head in an instant. She would meet Lord Renly at the end of that bridge, and that was at once more terrifying and exciting than any flying, fire-breathing beast she could imagine.

A great bronze gate and portcullis guarded the castle door, but they both stood open with the day, flanked by the white-cloaked knights of the Kingsguard. "Let's hope these guards know you," Hal commented. "I wonder if the Kingslayer is among them."

Lyra opened her mouth to chastise Hal—did he have a death wish, calling the queen's brother by that name _here?_—but her words died in her throat. She had spotted the iron spikes decorating the crenels, and every single one of them topped with some poor traitor's severed head.

Bile rose in Lyra's throat. Some of the heads had clearly been there for weeks, rotting in the southron sun, while others looked like they had only been stuck there just yesterday; but each was just as terrifying as the last, their mouths frozen open in silent screams of death. A chill cold as ice ran down her spine, but she couldn't bring herself to look away from the grotesque display, not even as she slowed her horse to a stop in front of the gate. This was a very different place from Winterfell, indeed.

"Lady Stark." A man's voice jolted her to attention, and when she glanced down there was no mistaking the golden-haired knight that spoke: Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer himself. "Welcome to King's Landing."

Lyra had never been one to dream of knights in shining armor, but now that she was literally face-to-face with one she found herself quite charmed. Ser Jaime was disarmingly handsome, the handsomest man she had ever seen, with bright green eyes and flaxen hair that shone in the morning sun. Even so, as he helped her down from her horse, Lyra couldn't help but think there was something unsettling about his sharp grin. She didn't doubt that Jamie Lannister's charm was just as fatal as the sword he had plunged into the back of the Mad King.

"Thank you, ser," she politely returned. "We're glad to have arrived. It was an easy journey, but a long one."

The Lannister flashed that grin again. His teeth were as white as his armor. "Well, I assure you Lord Renly has anxiously awaited your arrival ever since the announcement of your betrothal. He won't be disappointed; I see now why they call you the Winter Rose."

Hal grunted from beside Lyra. She agreed; she wasn't impressed with Ser Jaime's cheap flattery. "Where is Lord Renly?" she abruptly charged.

"Right here, my lady."

Lyra's heart suddenly began to thrum within her chest, and the next thing she knew she was face-to-face with her betrothed. Lord Renly was the near opposite of Ser Jamie in appearance, with jet-black hair and eyes the color of the sea, but he was no less handsome. Rather than cunning his smile was warm, and there was a definite air of youthful mischief about him. In that moment, Lyra decided that she quite liked the king's younger brother.

"Forgive Ser Jamie," he started with a crooked grin. "His years in the Kingsguard have left him out of practice on talking to beautiful women."

"At least I've _had_ practice, Lord Renly."

Renly cast Ser Jaime a sidelong glance, but Lyra paid no mind to the Kingslayer's muttered retort; she was positively taken with her husband-to-be. _He's handsome and quick-witted both. Gods, I think I may have lucked out._ "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, my lord," she said with a bashful curtsy. "I've heard much about your brother from my lord father, but I'm afraid I've heard very little about you."

Renly smirked again. "Well, I can only imagine what sorts of things Lord Stark has told you about King Robert, but I promise you—I'm nothing like him."

That was certainly a relief to hear. The King Robert Baratheon was one of Lyra's father's oldest and dearest friends, but from what she had deduced he was a lecherous and unfaithful man. Lyra surely would have been miserable if she had been forced to share a marriage bed with a husband who would rather sleep with whores than his wife.

"But enough with the pleasantries," Renly went on. "You've come a long way and I'm sure you want to rest. I've provided a handmaid for you; she'll take you to your chambers, and after you've settled in I can show you the parts of the keep that are actually worth seeing, if you'd like."

Lyra's eyes lit up—she wondered if he would take her to see the dragon skulls. "I would like that very much, my lord."

"Please, Lyra; I'm to be your husband. Call me Renly."

Her cheeks burned red and she averted her gaze bashfully to the ground. She felt a right fool; never had a man made her so flustered. _Is this what love feels like?_ Even if it wasn't, she realized, for the first time since her father had told her she would be married she wasn't dreading her wedding day.

Gray eyes met blue, and she gave her betrothed a demure smile. "Of course… Renly."

* * *

By the time Lyra had changed out of her traveling clothes and settled into her chambers, Renly had been called into a meeting of the king's small council; her tour of the castle would have to wait. No matter—she was perfectly capable of showing herself around, and her first stop would be the castle library.

Lyra's new handmaid, a pragmatic but kind woman by the name of Brella, had told her the library was located in the middle bailey, between the sept and the Tower of the Hand. Brella had been the head of Lord Renly's household prior to being charged with Lyra's care; and as Lyra had learned, she was quite frank in speech.

"Lord Renly doesn't like too much book learnin', milady," she had warned as she twisted her long, dark hair. Truthfully, that didn't surprise Lyra in the least; it was hardly typical for a lord as young and handsome as Renly to spend any time with his nose in a book. As for what he _did_ enjoy, though, if anyone could tell it was certainly his former head-of-house.

"What _does_ Lord Renly like, then?" Lyra had asked.

"Tourneys and hunting, same as any young lord," Brella had answered. "But you won't find Lord Renly drunk off summer wine or sneakin' away to the brothels. You needn't worry about _that_, milady."

"Is there something I _should_ worry about, Brella?"

The handmaid's fingers had slipped then. "Lord Renly has his own interests," she had answered as she picked back up her work. "You'll be free to do as you please, and that's something many a lady in King's Landing would like in a marriage."

Lyra didn't know what to make of that, much less how to respond, and so she had kept quiet while Brella finished fixing her hair. But the conversation was behind her now; she had arrived at the library, and upon entering she found herself shockingly underwhelmed.

"_This_ is it?" There was no doubt now that the Red Keep was smaller than Winterfell—the Library Tower back home was nearly twice the size of this place. _Lord Renly must not be the only one who doesn't care for book learning in the capital._ But despite her disappointment, Lyra eagerly made her way through the stacks. After all, this was King's Landing, the former stronghold of the Targaryens—there was bound to be some history of the dragonlords hiding on the dusty shelves that she hadn't yet consumed. She was so engrossed with scouring the titles that she wasn't even looking where she was going, and she nearly tripped over a stack of books. Except, upon regaining her footing she realized it wasn't a stack of books at all. It was a man.

"Lord Tyrion!" she proclaimed in surprise. Lyra had never met Tyrion Lannister in her life, but she knew for a certainty it was he she had nearly bowled over. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew of the Imp, beautiful Queen Cersei and handsome Ser Jaime's unfortunate dwarf brother. Although, Lyra noted that he clearly wasn't half as grotesque as hearsay made him out to be. She had suspected as much, but his mismatched eyes—one green as grass, the other black as night—were quite jarring to behold.

"I'm so sorry; I didn't see you, my lord," she said, and immediately blushed at her careless choice of words. "I mean to say, I wasn't paying attention."

Tyrion waved her off. "It's quite all right, my lady. Most people don't see me, either literally or because they simply choose not to. I'm more surprised I managed to stay upright. May I ask, though, what is it you're _so_ intent on finding? Given your enthusiasm, I might have to read it myself."

Lyra grinned despite her growing embarrassment. "Oh, I wasn't looking for anything in particular," she explained with some sheepishness. "I've just arrived in King's Landing, and I wanted to see the library. I figured there'd be more books about the Targaryens here than there are back home."

Quiet realization dawned on Tyrion's face as he gazed up at her. "You're Lyra Stark," he proclaimed. "Yes, I suppose there would be more books here about the Targaryens than there are in Winterfell, considering your family's rather contentious history with them."

"Oh, I learned a long time ago not to ask my lord father about the Targaryens," Lyra admitted. "He doesn't approve of my interest in them, but I can't help it—considering my family's rather contentious history with them."

Ever so slightly, the corner of Tyrion's mouth quirked up. "Well, my lord father doesn't approve of any of my interests, either, so it seems we have that in common," he quipped. "But if it's the Targaryens you're interested in, Lady Lyra, I do have a book I'd be willing to lend you. Are you familiar with _Lives of Four Kings_?"

Lyra's eyes widened with disbelief. Oh, she was familiar with the book. It detailed the lives of four Targaryen kings: Daeron I, Baelor I, Aegon IV, and Daeron II. Maester Luwin had mentioned it to her on more than one occasion, and often she had wondered if she would ever get the chance to read it. "The one written by Grand Maester Kaeth? I've been told there's only four copies in existence!"

"And I happen to be in possession of one of them," Tyrion confirmed. "Would you like to read it?"

Lyra was beside herself; she couldn't believe her luck. "Yes, of course. And I promise to return it to you good as new."

"I don't doubt you will," Tyrion returned. "We clearly share an appreciation for the written word, but that doesn't quite explain what you're doing in the library. If I know Lord Renly—and believe me, I do—right now he should be parading you up and down the streets of King's Landing for all to see. He's always basked in the adoration of the people, and your betrothal has been the talk of the city for weeks; I hope you know you've devastated every maiden in the kingdom."

"So it seems," Lyra returned with a bit of grin. Now that she had met Renly she could certainly understand their jealousy. "Lord Renly offered to show me the castle grounds, but he was called into a meeting of the king's small council, so I decided to show myself around. I thought the library would be a good place to start. Evidently I made the right choice." Truly, Lyra couldn't have been happier that she had run into—quite literally—Tyrion Lannister. And when he looked up at her, a wide smile spread across his face and gratitude shining in his ill-matched eyes, she knew she had acquired her very first friend in King's Landing.

"Well, my lady, I was just headed to the gardens and I would love if you joined me," he said. "I'm extremely curious to hear about Winterfell."

* * *

"So what does the Stark girl look like? Blue and thorny, if that 'Winter Rose' moniker is any indication."

Queen Cersei Lannister had anticipated the day of Lyra Stark's arrival with hatred and disgust in her heart. Indeed, from the very moment her loathsome husband had announced his brother's betrothal to the girl she had been suspicious of the match. She had heard talk of the beauty of Lord Eddard's eldest daughter, of her smooth porcelain skin, her dark silken hair, and how she so resembled her late aunt, Lyanna Stark—Robert's long lost love. More than a decade now that she-wolf bitch had lain dead in her crypt underneath the frozen walls of Winterfell, and still Robert pined for her. But Lyra was the next best thing, her flesh and blood—Lyanna incarnate. No doubt that was why the king had been so eager to bring her to the capital._ He's pathetic_, Cersei thought as she took another sip of wine. _Pathetic and foul._

"Well, she may be thorny but she's certainly not blue," Jaime answered. "She's a beautiful young maid, with fair skin and pink lips and a supple figure that would look best unclothed. It's a shame, really—it will all go to waste in Renly's bed."

Cersei fixed her twin with a resentful glare. "Well maybe _you_ should fuck her, then."

"Cersei," Jaime cooed with a playful grin; he just loved riling her up. "Lyra Stark is pretty, but a rose is dull compared to the rising sun."

Cersei rolled her eyes. She hated when Jaime waxed poetic.

"Besides," he continued. "I'm sure your husband will take care to fuck her himself. Like you said—he's only brought her here because she's the closest living thing to Lyanna Stark in all of Westeros."

"No, he won't," Cersei returned. "Robert Baratheon may be a lecherous fool but he's not so dumb as to bed Eddard Stark's daughter. To touch her would be to sign his own death sentence. He knows as much."

That baffled Jaime. "Well then why marry her to Renly if not to lure her to his bed?"

"Because," Cersei went on, "you know what everyone says, how Renly looks just as Robert did when he wasn't so old and fat. Your dear king wants to live vicariously through his younger brother; this is the marriage he never got but always wanted, played out before his very eyes." Cersei was certain that was Robert's game. He knew well enough that Renly preferred the company of men, but that wasn't his concern. He would condemn the Stark girl to a loveless marriage so that he could finally live out his tragic romance, even if only secondhand. _I almost feel sorry for her._

"Well then let's hope some Targaryen prince doesn't emerge and spirit Lyra away," Jaime remarked with a wave of his hand. "Robert would start another war."

"Yes, he would," Cersei agreed. "But at least then I would be rid of him."

* * *

Lyra felt terribly out of place. King Robert had thrown a banquet in her honor, and the Great Hall was filled with nearly every person of import in King's Landing. From her seat at the high table in between the king and Renly she could see them all, shooting her furtive glances and whispering over their goblets. She couldn't care less what things they said about her, but she had never felt more alone than she did in that moment. She would have given anything for her twin brother Robb to be there with her now.

"Tell me how your father is, Lyra," the King Robert boomed from beside her. He was on his fourth cup of summer wine already, and he was growing louder and more boisterous by the sip. "It's been far too long since I've seen my old friend Ned Stark. Still as solemn as ever, I bet?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Lyra politely returned. "He wouldn't be my father if he wasn't."

"Well I suppose it's for the best. Had I not had Ned to balance me out when we were younger men I might already be dead! I recall one incident on the road to the tourney at Harrenhal…"

"I've heard this story a dozen times," Renly murmured; Lyra's stomach warmed as his breath tickled her ear. "It gets more and more elaborate each time he tells it, because each time he tells it he's drunker than the last."

Lyra stifled a laugh with her palm. She couldn't believe Renly was mocking the King of the Seven Kingdoms whilst sitting at his table, even if he was his brother. "You're going get me in trouble, my lord," she said with a smile at him. "I can sense it already."

"Well what's wrong with a little trouble?" he grinned. Lyra blushed as red as Queen Cersei's gown.

"Lady Lyra," a man's voice interrupted them, and when Lyra turned from Renly her smile faded from her face. The first thing she noticed about the man standing before her was his stature. He was short and slight of build, but even so there was an undeniable air of confidence about him. The second thing she noticed was his shrewd gray-green eyes, and how intently they trained in on her. Gooseflesh rippled up her spine; whoever this man was, he didn't seem like one to be trusted.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to introduce myself before the evening wore on any further. My name is Lord Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin for King's Landing. I grew up with your mother at Riverrun."

Lyra swallowed the lump in her throat; so this was Lord Petyr Baelish. Her lady mother Catelyn Stark had told her all about her old friend Petyr—and his unrequited love for her. _Now I see why it was unrequited._ "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord Baelish. My mother has told me quite a bit about you."

"Has she?" his eyes glittered at that. "Well, I hope it was only good things. But enough about me—I was wondering if you would like to dance? If that's all right with your husband-to-be, of course."

"It's not up to me, Littlefinger," Renly returned; Lord Baelish seemed to bristle at the nickname. "It's Lyra's choice."

Once again, Lyra was all too aware of all the eyes watching her. Despite Renly's assertion that it was her choice, she knew she didn't have a choice at all. She would dance with Lord Baelish, lest she look like a pretentious and rude little girl in the eyes of the rich and powerful of in King's Landing. "I'd be honored the dance with you, Lord Baelish."

"Oh, my lady," Lord Baelish returned with a roguish grin, "the honor is all mine." He held out his hand, and Lyra reluctantly accepted.

He led her out onto the floor, where couples dressed in rich clothes and finery turned and swayed to the band. The music had changed from a sprightly, jaunty tune to something much more slow and somber. Lyra recognized the song, but before she could remember its name Lord Baelish had started the dance and she had to concentrate on following him. The dances here were different than in the North.

"How do you find King's Landing, Lady Lyra?" he asked. "I can imagine it's been a bit of a culture shock, coming from the North. You're quite a ways from home."

Lyra didn't like Lord Baelish's voice. It was silky and too smooth, like the freshly sharpened edge of a blade. "Oh, I like it very much," she answered truthfully. "Lord Tyrion showed me the gardens this afternoon, and lent me a book I've been dying to read."

"Is that so?" he thoughtfully returned. "It seems hard-to-find books have come into demand these days…"

Lyra's brow furrowed. "Like what?"

"Oh, massive old tomes only a maester would find interesting," he dismissed. "Tell me, did you get a chance to meet your uncle? I'm afraid he's been… preoccupied as of late."

Lord Baelish's tone hinted that he knew far more than he was letting on, but Lyra didn't bother to pry. Her uncle, Lord Jon Arryn, was the Hand of the King—of course he was preoccupied. "He stopped by my chambers before the banquet," she answered. "He did seem rather distracted."

"Yes well, you know what they say. _The king dreams_—"

"_The Hand builds_," Lyra finished. Lord Baelish seemed impressed.

"Smart, just like your mother," he commented. "If I may ask, what exactly has Lady Catelyn told you about me? It's been far too long since I've last seen her."

Lyra glanced nervously away. She couldn't lie to Lord Baelish—he would undoubtedly see right through it, and anyhow she was a terrible liar to begin with—but there had to be a more delicate way of putting the truth. "Well," she carefully began, "back at Winterfell my father has a ward. Theon Greyjoy."

"Yes, Lord Balon's son."

"Yes. He… fancies me, but I don't feel the same. And my mother told me when she was young she dealt with… a similar situation."

Lord Baelish's shrewd eyes darkened; he slowed their dancing to a halt. Lyra had a sudden sinking feeling that she had made a grave mistake. "You may be smart, Lady Lyra, but it seems you're a bit naïve. I know things are different back at Winterfell, but in King's Landing sometimes it's not the wisest decision to be so honest. It could get you in trouble—or worse."

The lump returned to Lyra's throat. It wasn't so easy to swallow down this time. "I'm sorry, my lord," she said as she averted her eyes to the ground—but then she felt a comforting hand on the small of her back. It was Renly.

"Are you harassing my lady already, Littlefinger?" he asked with an accusatory glare at Lord Baelish. "I would appreciate if you wouldn't scare her off on her first night here."

"I assure you, there's no harassment going on here, Lord Renly," Lord Baelish answered. The impish smirk had returned to his face, and his tone was cool and even. "I was just giving Lyra some friendly advice."

Renly seemed skeptical, but he said no more to him. "Is everything all right, Lyra?"

Lyra nodded. The sympathy in Renly's blue eyes soothed her nerves, but she was rattled at the portent of Lord Baelish's words. The sooner she heeded them, the better. "Yes, my lord; I'm just tired. I've had a long day, and it's late. I think I'll retire, if I may."

"Of course. I'll escort you to your chambers." Renly gave Lord Baelish a final stern glare, and as he led her away from the floor the man called Littlefinger grinned after them.

"Goodnight, Lady Lyra. And welcome to King's Landing."


	2. Secrets

**Chapter Two**

Lord Eddard Stark found his wife exactly where he expected: in their bedchamber, staring forlornly out the window, past the castle walls and down the long stretch of the Kingsroad until it disappeared into the overcast horizon and could be seen no more. It had become a frequent habit of hers, ever since their eldest daughter had ridden south.

She spoke before he could take two steps into the room. "I'm worried about Lyra." She turned her eyes to meet his. They were weary and sad, yet riddled with anxiety. "I have a bad feeling, Ned."

Ned gave Catelyn a look of assurance. She was fiercely protective of all her children, but she had been particularly fretful over Lyra from the moment she had entered maidenhood. He couldn't rightly blame her. Lyra was their first child to marry—their first to leave home. Soon, others would follow. "I'm sure they've safely arrived; the Kingsroad is an easy journey. We'll receive word from Hal soon."

"It's not the Kingsroad that worries me," she muttered as she returned to staring out the window. Ned's expression hardened. Catelyn had quietly protested Lyra's betrothal to Renly Baratheon from the very moment the raven had arrived with King Robert's offer, and he had grown tired of her displeasure.

"Lyra will be happy and well taken care of, I promise you. Jon Arryn will watch over her as one of his own, and Lord Renly is a good match."

"Cley Cerwyn is a good match."

Ned bristled. Lord Medger Cerwyn had proposed a betrothal to his son Cley, heir to Castle Cerwyn, just a half-day's ride from Winterfell, but he had made the offer too late. Ned had already sent word back to Robert accepting the betrothal to Renly, and he would not rescind; the deed was done. It had become a bitter point of contention between him and his wife. "What would you have me do? Send word to the king that I've changed my mind? Tell him his brother isn't good enough for my daughter? That would accomplish nothing save insulting Robert's pride and souring relations between Winterfell and the crown."

"Damn Robert's pride," Catelyn bit. "Lyra is a Stark. A direwolf belongs in the North, and you've sent her off to live in a den of lions."

Ned frowned; his wife's words stung him. A direwolf Lyra may be, but she was a sweet summer babe who knew nothing of the dark, dangerous days of winter. Winter was far more treacherous than any Lannister lion. And winter was coming. "I could not keep her here, Cat. You must understand that."

Catelyn's lips pressed into a hard, thin line, but thankfully she said no more on the matter. "Robb hasn't been himself since Lyra left. He's withdrawn."

There was no disputing the truth in that. Their eldest son had been notably quieter since his twin's departure. Robb and Lyra had been thick as thieves from birth, never apart for more than days at a time. But one was just as independent and strong-willed as the other; Ned didn't doubt his son and heir would be himself again soon enough. "Robb's gone hunting with Jon and Theon. He'll be fine, as will Lyra."

If his words brought Catelyn any comfort, Ned couldn't tell. She was stoic as a statue, and nearly as cold. "I pray to the old gods and the new that you're right," she said.

Ned took her hand in his. "The old gods hear you," he assured. "The old gods will protect her."

* * *

Lyra slept in later than she meant to that morning. Upon arriving back at her chambers from the banquet she had found Lord Tyrion's copy of _Lives of Four Kings_ awaiting her, and she had stayed up reading until she could keep her eyes open no longer. Brella had found her passed out on top of her covers—at least she had had the sense to change into her bedclothes.

"Hurry and wash up," Brella had said. "You're taking lunch with the king and your uncle, and it won't do no good looking like you didn't get a wink of sleep." Now here she was at lunch, and Lyra quite honestly wished she were back reading in her bedchamber.

"Is it true that Northern women grow beards to keep warm from the cold?"

Queen Cersei did a bad job of stifling her laugh at her eldest son's question, and Lyra did an even worse job of masking her disdain. Prince Joffrey Baratheon was a despicable little wretch. He was spoiled and rotten to his core, and he had spent the entire lunch taking every opportunity to belittle Lyra's family and home. She prayed that one day he would see the North and its good, hardy people, if only so that he could see how dishonorable and weak he was by comparison.

"Don't be an idiot, Joffrey," King Robert chastised his son. "Some of the most beautiful women in Westeros come from the North, as you can see clearly right before you." Lyra shifted uncomfortably in her seat at the compliment; Cersei's green eyes were glaring daggers at her. "Besides, you may very well take a Northern woman to wife one day. Lyra has a sister your age. Isn't that right, Lyra?"

Lyra went rigid. Never in a thousand winters would she wish Joffrey upon sweet, starry-eyed Sansa, crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms or not. But she remembered what Lord Baelish had said to her at the banquet, and so she gave the king her best smile, stiff as it was. "Oh, yes. Sansa is a perfect young lady, and already people talk of her beauty. She will make a wonderful wife—someday."

"Well, I'm afraid we can't say the same about Joffrey. That he would make a wonderful _husband_, I mean," Renly cracked; but before Lyra could try not to laugh Joffrey parlayed with a seething retort.

"That's funny; I didn't know people like you were qualified to judge what makes a good husband, uncle."

"ENOUGH!" the king boomed. Lyra nearly jumped from her seat in shock. "Joffrey, I don't want to hear another word from you for the remainder of the meal. And Renly," he turned stormy eyes on his brother. "Don't _ever_ insult my son."

Renly pursed his lips in agitation, but he kept quiet. Now Lyra understood House Baratheon's words: _Ours is the fury_.

Lord Jon Arryn, ever the faithful the Hand of the King, thankfully interrupted the silence before it could grow any tenser. "How are the rest of your siblings, Lyra? There are so many of you Starks I lose track. I still can't believe Ned already has a child of marriageable age; it seems only yesterday he was a child himself."

"Oh, he has two," Lyra answered her uncle. "My twin brother Robb is of age, as well, but he's not been matched with anyone yet."

"You have a twin?" Princess Myrcella excitedly piped up. "Mother and Uncle Jaime are twins too!"

Lyra smiled down at the little princess. She was as sweet as Joffrey was sour. "Yes, but my twin and I don't look nearly as much alike as Queen Cersei and Ser Jaime do. Robb takes after our mother, and he has curly auburn hair and blue eyes. I think you would find him quite handsome."

Myrcella blushed a shade of crimson as she sank bashfully down into her chair, her grin as wide as her face.

"How many other brothers and sisters do you have?" Prince Tommen, the middle Baratheon child, asked.

"Well, we've already mentioned Sansa," Lyra thoughtfully began, "so then there's Arya, my youngest sister. She's… spirited, to put it mildly. Then there's Bran, who's about your age; he'd rather climb than walk. And the youngest is little Rickon. He may be small, but already he's as strong-willed as any other Stark."

"There's another one, isn't there?" Cersei suddenly interjected. "A bastard."

Lyra turned her gaze to the queen. Yes, she did have a bastard brother: Jon Snow. But Lyra didn't think of Jon as a _bastard_; she thought of him as her _brother_, and she loved him just as she did any of her trueborn siblings. But even so, she had been wary to mention him here. She knew her family had been much kinder to Jon than most noble families were to bastard children. "Yes. Jon. He's my second-oldest brother."

"You think of him as your brother?" Cersei returned. She wore a look on her beautiful face as if she smelled something foul. Lyra kept quiet—she couldn't think of anything to say in response that wouldn't land her head on a pike for all of King's Landing to see.

"Of course she does," Renly proclaimed. "Because he _is_ her brother. Just because he's a bastard doesn't mean they don't share the same blood."

Lyra looked across the table at her betrothed with unwavering gratitude in her eyes. If she hadn't already been falling for Renly, she certainly was now.

But of course Cersei wouldn't allow him to have the last word. "It's hardly honorable for a noble lord to raise his bastard as a trueborn," she argued. "I thought Eddard Stark put honor before all else."

Lyra set her jaw. Now she was beginning to see where Joffrey got his nastiness, but she had to remember to whom she was speaking. "With respect, Your Grace, you're mistaken. My lord father upholds duty just as high as honor, and as Jon's father it's his duty to raise him as his son."

The table grew uncomfortably quiet. Lyra had effectively defeated the queen in verbal battle—and there weren't many things Cersei disliked more than losing.

"Indeed it is," Renly interjected into the silence. "Relax, Cersei. It's not as if there aren't any other nobles with bastard children."

Cersei rounded on Renly with all the fierceness of a wild lioness. "Who are _you_ to tell _me_ to relax?"

"Enough," King Robert repeated, but his fury had wilted. He was weary. "I've had my fill, of this conversation and meal both. You all can continue your bickering without me." With that he pushed himself up from the table, and snatching up his wine goblet he marched away and out of the hall. Once again, the party was thrown into silence. Lyra kept her eyes on her plate. Cersei was glaring at her again.

"Well as lovely as this is, I owe Lyra a tour of the castle," Renly announced. "Shall we go, my lady?"

"Yes," Lyra nearly jumped out of her seat she was so eager to leave. It was hardly polite, but she hardly cared; it was painfully obvious the queen would rather not be in her presence, anyhow, and the feeling was mutual.

They both excused themselves and exited as quickly as they could. Lyra expelled a sigh of relief as soon as they made it out into the corridor. "Thank you, for getting me out of there. And for sticking up for me," she said, but Renly waved her apology away like smoke.

"It's no fault of your own," he assured her. "Bastard children are a bit of a sore subject for the queen."

Lyra's lips parted, but she said nothing. She knew exactly what Renly was implying: King Robert had sired bastard children. She wondered how many they numbered, and if they were better people than Joffrey. "Prince Joffrey is horrid," she thought aloud—and then her eyes widened at making such a stupid mistake. "Gods, I didn't mean—"

"Don't apologize," Renly interrupted with a smirk. "Save his parents, you won't find a soul in King's Landing who disagrees with you."

A smirk curled on Lyra's lips. She was becoming more grateful every day to have Renly by her side. Not only was he proving to be a kind and considerate partner, but a trusted confidante, as well. "If I may ask, what did he mean when he said 'people like you' aren't qualified to judge what makes a good husband? You seem perfectly qualified to me."

For a second, Renly hesitated. But he recovered so quickly that Lyra wondered if she hadn't imagined it entirely. "Your guess is as good as mine. As you said, Joffrey's a horrible little brat. He enjoys insulting people just for the sake of insulting them, and I advise you pay him no mind. Furthermore, I wasn't just trying to rescue you from the wrath of Cersei; I promised I would show you the castle, and I meant it. So what would you like to see first?"

Lyra's gray eyes sparkled like the snow in the sun. She knew precisely what she wanted to see first, but would it be too bold or odd to ask? But Lord Renly didn't seem the type to turn down a good adventure, and she just couldn't deny her curiosity.

"I'd like to see the dragons."

* * *

Lyra made sure to follow close behind Renly. He had led her down so many narrow and winding passageways and steep and spiraling staircases that she'd never find her way back out if she lost him now. It grew darker and danker the further they went, and she wondered how anyone could ever possibly remember the way.

"How often have you been to the cellar?"

"Once or twice," Renly answered with an impish grin back at her. He looked even more handsome in the warm glow of their torches. Lyra's heart skipped a beat.

"You must have a fantastic memory, then," she remarked. "I don't think I could remember the way after just once or twice."

"Well, these passageways are used to get many more places than just the cellar, my lady. They're useful for when you don't want to be seen—or heard. I don't doubt you'll know the route yourself in a few weeks."

"And why is that? Will I be up to things that require being unseen and unheard?"

"Perhaps. You live in King's Landing now. Everyone has secrets here, even if they had none before arriving."

"Do you have secrets, my lord?"

Renly paused. He pivoted, his torch whirring through the dark. The light of the flame danced in his blue eyes. "Of course," he answered. Lyra's heart palpitated once more, but it wasn't a pleasant feeling this time. Renly started off again, and she had to hurry to keep pace.

Through more twists and turns and down more halls they went, and Lyra swore the walls were closing in on her. The ceiling seemed lower; the floor seemed filthier. What if Renly wasn't leading her to the dragon skulls at all? Had she been too quick to trust him, too willing to follow him into the dark? Her mother had always warned her curiosity would get the best of her someday. Maybe that day had finally arrived.

She opened her mouth to ask how much further they would go when the cramped hall suddenly opened up into a cavernous space. When the light revealed what they had come upon, Lyra's breath was stolen from her. "Gods."

Renly smirked. "Here are your dragons, Lady Lyra."

There were the dragons, indeed. They loomed like mountains in the dark, all fang and horn and bone, and even in death they were fearsome. More than a dozen she could count, but three stood watch over the rest, just as the three great hills stood watch over the city. They were the skulls of the three great dragons that had helped Aegon and his sisters to conquer Westeros: Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes. Lyra had dreamed of these dragons, both awake and asleep, and now here they were before her.

"These used to hang in the Great Hall, you know," Renly said. "Robert couldn't remove them fast enough. He said they were watching him with phantom eyes. He could _feel_ it."

Lyra didn't say a word; she was transfixed. The largest of the skulls was just before her, drawing her in like a moth to flame. It was Balerion, Aegon's dragon. _The Black Dread_.

Slowly she approached, stepping as lightly as she could. She imagined if she moved too quickly the beast would awake and consume her, but despite her fear she had to _see_ it. It was a terrible and powerful sight. The skull itself had to be some thirty feet long and fifteen feet wide, with sharp bony crests and horns protruding even further. Its largest teeth were the length of her arm; its eye sockets were larger than her head, and Lyra _swore_ it was staring at her—watching her from the black depths of its skull. It beckoned her closer. It could feel the heat of her torch. It craved the flame. She reached out, fingers trembling, and when she touched the cold bone a sense of dread overwhelmed her. Not long ago she had wished she could have witnessed the might of Balerion in all his black-flamed glory, but now she knew she was lucky to have been spared.

"Balerion—"

Lyra let out a yelp as she jumped in fright. Renly caught her just before she could stumble to the ground. "It's just me," he said. "I'm sorry, my lady. I didn't mean to startle you."

Lyra momentarily forgot how to breathe. She had been so fixated on Balerion's skull that she had completely forgotten Renly was even there, and now it was suddenly quite obvious he was there. His free arm was wrapped tight around her waist, and hers clutched his shoulder; her chest was flush against his, and their lips were inches apart. Lyra had been kissed before—Theon had stolen one from her on the night of the last harvest feast in Winterfell—but never had she wanted so badly to feel a man's lips on hers.

"Are you all right, Lyra?"

She shook her head, snapping out of her daze. "Yes," she said as she stepped back from him. "King Robert was right. They do watch you with phantom eyes."

"Evidently," he conceded. "You were positively spellbound."

"My mother says I have an 'unhealthy obsession' with the Targaryens," she returned with a roll of her eyes. Lyra wouldn't go so far as to call it "unhealthy," but she had no qualms about the fact that it _was_ a bit of an obsession. Back in Winterfell Robb and Jon had jested her for it, and Sansa thought her twisted for wanting to uncover everything she could about Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Actually, now that she thought about it, _that_ probably wouldn't be well received in King's Landing, either. _I suppose that should be my first secret._

"Well, if it's dragons and Targaryens you like, there's something else I can show you." Lyra looked back at Renly. The corner of his mouth was quirked up in that boyish grin of his. "The Dragonpit."

Secrets be damned. There was no way Lyra was passing up an opportunity to see the Dragonpit. "You would take me there?"

He stepped closer. "If it would please you."

Her heart sped up once more, but she wasn't certain if it was because of Renly or her excitement at his offer. "It would," she said. Her betrothed grinned.

"Well, then we'll go tonight."

* * *

It was important to go under cover of darkness, Renly said, because no one respectable was ever seen venturing into the ruins of the Dragonpit. "What sorts _do_ venture into the Dragonpit, then?" Lyra had asked as they set off into the night.

"Whores, and their patrons," Renly frankly returned. Lyra didn't ask any more questions after that.

The hooves of their horses clip-clopped along the cobbled streets of the city. It was a long ride to Rhaenys's Hill from the Red Keep, at least the way Renly was taking them. Down and around the twists and turns of Shadowblack Lane to the Street of Seeds, which they followed until it intersected the Street of the Sisters. From there it was a long, straight ride right into the decrepit ruins of the Dragonpit. There was a quicker way to go, for a certainty, but it cut straight through the slums of Flea Bottom; and Flea Bottom, Renly said, was no place for a lady—especially at this time of night.

It occurred to Lyra to point out that the Dragonpit was no place for a lady, either, but she stilled her tongue.

"So I must ask," Renly started after they had been riding for some time. "How does a Stark come to be so enamored with dragons? If anything, I thought you would have been taught to hate the Targaryens with every fiber of your being."

Lyra grinned despite herself. It wasn't the first time someone had asked her that question, and she was certain it wouldn't be the last. "Well, I should say firstly that Lord Eddard Stark doesn't teach his children to hate anything save dishonorableness and cowardice. And secondly, I don't think I _came_ to be enamored with dragons—I just _am_. Some of my first and fondest memories are of sitting around a fire with Robb and Jon, listening to Old Nan tell us tales of an ice dragon whose breath was cold as death and whose wings would freeze the land as it flew overhead. My brothers thought the dragon was evil, but I never thought so. I had dreams that told me otherwise."

"Dreams?" Renly asked. He sounded thoroughly intrigued. "What sort of dreams?"

"Well, there were other stories Nan would tell us; stories about evil things that live beyond the Wall. 'The Others,' she called them. Robb and Jon always asked to hear the stories of the Others and the Long Night, but those tales gave me nightmares. I would dream I was being chased through the woods by a terrible monster with snow-white skin and eyes that burned blue as the stars, and I was certain I was going to die. But just before the monster could catch me the ice dragon would swoop down and kill it with its breath. It saved me, every time, and soon the nightmares turned to dreams that I was riding on the ice dragon's back over the wilds beyond the Wall, vanquishing the land of the Others so they could never scare anyone ever again."

Robb was the only other person Lyra had ever told about those dreams. They had stopped a long time ago, but she could remember them as vivid as yesterday: How frightened she was, how cold she felt, how she woke up screaming in her bed, heart pounding through her chest. In one particularly bad nightmare the Other had nearly caught her—it managed to grab her cloak in its icy fingers—but the ice dragon never let the monster harm her, not once, no matter how close it came. For that, to little Lyra the ice dragon was a greater hero than all the greatest warriors of the First Men combined.

"You're right," Renly said. "That's no evil dragon." It brought a smile to Lyra's face.

They rode further along, the Dragonpit rising ever larger before them, and the Street of the Sisters was alive despite the late hour. Indeed, some of the businesses and shops were only just entering their peak hours of operation. Women in worn and disheveled dresses lingered outside the taverns and inns, propositioning the drunks as they stumbled in and out. Many of them weren't very pleasing to look upon at all, and Lyra wondered why any man would pay them for their time. _That must be why they're chasing drunkards. The pretty ones can wait back in the brothels for the men to come to them._

"Evenin', m'lord." Suddenly a young woman stepped right out in front of Renly's horse, and he had to jerk on his reins to keep from running her over. Lyra couldn't believe her audacity—and she didn't at all like the way she was smirking up at Renly. "What are you doing out an' about the city at this time of night?"

Much to Lyra's relief, Renly looked nothing but perturbed. "Woman, as the Master of Laws of King's Landing I can be out and about whenever I please, and my lady wanted to see the city. So kindly step aside and let us continue on our way."

The whore didn't move. "That's a shame. I had hoped you were paying us a visit like your brother."

Lyra's jaw dropped. How uncouth was this woman to say such a thing about the King of Westeros straight to his_ brother_? But she was even more shocked to see that Renly wasn't offended at all by the comment. In fact, he was smirking.

"If you knew anything about me at all, whore, you would know that my desires are a far cry from King Robert's. You won't be receiving any visits from me."

"I'm not meaning the king, m'lord. I'm meaning Lord Stannis."

Gone was the smirk from Renly's lips; his eyes turned hard and cold. "What did you say, whore?"

The whore grinned. It was an ugly, dirty smile. "Lord Stannis Baratheon entered the brothel down the alley some half hour ago. Him and the Hand of the King."

"_What_?" Now she had piqued Lyra. "You lie." She may have only just met her uncle, but she knew enough to know that Jon Arryn wasn't at all the kind to visit brothels.

"I may be a whore, but I'm no liar, m'lady," she returned. "See for yourself… there they are now."

Renly and Lyra looked to where the whore had nodded. It was just as she said. There was Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, and Lord Stannis Baratheon, Master of Ships for King's Landing, emerging from the brothel in the alley.

Renly took off like a bolt, nearly trampling the whore. "Stannis!" he shouted; and when the elder Baratheon saw his brother riding toward him his already stern gaze grew even sterner. "What is the meaning of this? _You_? Visiting a _brothel_?"

Stannis Baratheon was a very serious man. Lyra had met him at the banquet the night before, and he had seemed thoroughly unhappy to be there; he had spent the entire evening sneering down his nose at everyone as if they all had caused him some great injustice. He was looking at Renly with that very same expression now. "I assure you, brother, the meaning of this is no business of yours."

"And why is that?" Renly challenged. "Are you ashamed? There's no reason to be ashamed of your desires, brother."

Stannis's face twisted into a scowl, but Jon interrupted before he could get out a word. "Wait now, is that my niece? Lyra, what in Seven Hells are you doing outside the walls of the Red Keep at this time of night?"

Lyra looked sheepish as she brought her horse next to Renly's. A cruel grin curled on Stannis's lips. "Yes, Renly. What is the meaning of _this_?"

Renly's jaw stiffened as he glared down at his brother. "It's no business of yours."

"Well I'm afraid it is business of _mine_, Lord Renly," Jon interjected. "I swore to Lord Eddard I would watch over his daughter, and you should know better than to gallivant about the city in the dead of night. It's dangerous."

"Don't blame Renly, uncle," Lyra spoke up. She couldn't let Renly take the fall for this—she was the reason they were out here, after all. "This is my doing. I asked to see the Dragonpit and Lord Renly agreed to take me. It was a foolish request. We'll return to the Red Keep straightaway."

Out of the corner of her eye Lyra saw Renly turn to her, but she kept her gaze on her uncle. The last thing she wanted was for him to write home about this—her mother would look for any reason to bring her back to Winterfell.

"I see," Jon nodded. "It was a very foolish request, indeed. The Dragonpit is no place for a young lady, not even in broad daylight."

"No, it's not," Stannis echoed. His inky blue eyes were dark as the night sky. "You should never have agreed to take her, Renly, and I doubt Lord Eddard would be too pleased to hear that you're allowing his daughter to mingle with whores. So why don't you turn around and head back to the castle, forget that you ever saw us here, and we'll forget in turn that we ever saw you."

Lyra looked to Renly. There was a rage bubbling inside him, but unlike King Robert he didn't allow it to break the surface. "Let's go, Lyra," he said. "We'll return to the keep, as the lords wish." He jerked his horse around and made for the road, Lyra following close behind—but not before she gave Lord Jon and Lord Stannis one last glance over her shoulder.

Renly was right. Everyone in King's Landing did have secrets.


	3. An Acquired Taste

_A/N: Finally got around to working on this fic again. Sorry it's a rather short update, but there's actually quite a bit happening - and things are getting ready to kick into high gear. Thank you to everyone who has followed and favorited, and PLEASE take a second to leave a review at the end! :)_

_(Note for any of my TotL readers who may see this: I'm in the midst of completely revamping the story, and I'm about halfway through FINISHING it. Patience is a virtue, and thanks for understanding. I'm doing everything I can to get that fic completed for you all :) )_

**Chapter Three**

Days turned into weeks, and before she knew it Lyra had already been in King's Landing for more than a fortnight. Hal and the rest of the men who had accompanied her to the capital had set off for Winterfell more than a week ago, but she hardly noticed their absence; between reading every book in the library, exploring the castle grounds, and learning how to be a proper Southron lady, Lyra simply didn't have time to be homesick. In fact, the North seemed to miss her far more than she missed the North: she had received not one but two ravens from Winterfell, one from Robb and one from her mother. She had responded to Robb's message immediately, enthusiastically writing of Tyrion and the dragons and how wonderful Renly was; but when she sat down to write her mother she found that she didn't know what to say. The quill and parchment still sat in her chambers, with nothing but "Dear Mother," written down.

Indeed, Winterfell was the furthest thing from Lyra's mind, especially now as she sat in the castle gardens underneath the warmth of the sun, talking about everything and nothing with Tyrion Lannister.

"Have you ever had Dornish wine?" Tyrion asked as he poured himself another cup of the deep red liquid. "It's the finest wine in all of Westeros."

"I haven't," Lyra answered. "I've barely had any wine at all; my mother says it's not proper for a young unmarried lady to drink. But my father did sneak me a cup at the harvest feast once."

"Well, you're to be sister by marriage to the King of the Seven Kingdoms soon, so _I_ say you can drink as much as you please." He poured her a cup and set it before her. Lyra hesitated for a moment, the words of her mother still ringing in her ears, but she pushed them out of her mind and took up the goblet. Her mother was thousands of miles away, and anyhow Tyrion was right—she was a betrothed woman now. She could drink her fill.

But she wouldn't, because it tasted _awful_. Tyrion let out a loud belly laugh as she screwed up her face and set the cup aside. "I suppose it's an acquired taste," he said. "You'll learn to love it; trust me. But in the meantime, more for me."

"My brothers prefer ale," Lyra grimaced. "I think I do too."

"Whatever gets the job done, I suppose."

"The queen certainly seems to enjoy a cup of wine," Lyra pointedly remarked. In other company she wouldn't have dared utter something like that aloud, but it had become quickly evident that Cersei liked Tyrion about as much as she liked Lyra; and furthermore, that Tyrion liked his sister about as much as Lyra did.

"Yes, she does," Tyrion agreed. "It's the one thing we have in common. Well, that and our parentage, I'm told."

Lyra sent him a grin. "Does it run in the family? Is there more to the old saying? 'A Lannister always pays his debts and always drinks his wine'?"

Tyrion shook his head. "No, not particularly. I just think Cersei and I have both led lives that have driven us to drink."

"_Cersei_'s life has driven her to drink?" she incredulously returned. "She's the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms! How difficult could her life possibly be?"

"Oh, quite difficult, considering she's married to a man she hates."

That gave Lyra pause. Quite honestly, it didn't surprise her that Cersei hated the king; in the weeks since she'd arrived, she'd hadn't seen so much as a smile shared between them. But to hear it so plainly stated that theirs was a loveless marriage—well, it certainly put things in perspective. "Does she love another?"

Tyrion cast her a look over the top of his cup. Lyra got the distinct feeling that he knew something he probably shouldn't. "Well, I doubt it was love, but when she was a girl she quite fancied Rhaegar Targaryen."

Lyra's eyes widened. "The crown prince?"

"The one and only," he confirmed. "You see, when Cersei was young our father promised that she would marry Prince Rhaegar and one day become queen. I don't know if it was the power or the prince she coveted more, but Cersei lived for the day they would wed. So imagine her devastation when King Aerys rejected our father's proposal in favor of—"

"Elia Martell," Lyra finished. Tyrion smirked at her enthusiasm.

"Yes. Of course, Cersei wed Robert shortly after he claimed the Iron Throne, so she became queen after all. But Robert Baratheon is a poor consolation prize compared to Rhaegar Targaryen, and he was, and still is, very much in love with your aunt Lyanna. And Lyanna, of course—well, I'm sure you know the story of her demise."

Lyra sat quiet, her fingers still gripping her wine goblet. Oh, she knew all too well the fate of Lyanna Stark: how Prince Rhaegar had passed over his own wife to crown her the Queen of Love and Beauty at the tourney at Harrenhal; how he had later abducted her and sequestered her away to the Tower of Joy in Dorne where Lyra's father had found her covered in blood; how her disappearance had led to the deaths of both Lyra's grandfather Rickard and uncle Brandon, and ultimately the demise of House Targaryen's rule over Westeros. Lyanna Stark's beauty had launched a war; that Lyra had always known. But evidently, even her memory inspired hatred.

"I suppose that explains why Cersei seems to despise me so," Lyra quipped.

Tyrion raised his glass in salute. "And why she drinks so much wine."

* * *

"Well, they seem to be enjoying themselves, don't they? If we waste any more time, Tyrion may take Lyra to bed himself."

"Oh please, Loras," Renly incredulously shot. As much as he loved Ser Loras Tyrell, he really did hate how misguided he could be. "Tyrion Lannister loves whores, not young maidens."

"Yes, well—Renly Baratheon doesn't love young maidens, either, and yet he's marrying one."

Renly pressed his lips into a thin, hard line. Jealousy was another undesirable trait of his lover's. "My marriage to Lyra is nothing more than pretense. You know that."

His words couldn't have been truer. But they didn't satisfy Loras. "She's been here more than a fortnight and she's spent barely a moment with the king. Why is that? Have you forgotten our whole purpose for bringing her here?"

Renly closed his eyes in annoyance. No, he hadn't forgotten their purpose; truthfully, he couldn't stop thinking of it. He and Loras had long plotted on how to get Lyra Stark to King's Landing, to put her in Robert's path, to use her to seduce the king and oust Queen Cersei once and for all. Renly had thought the plan brilliant—in fact, it had been his idea. Loras had first suggested his sister Margaery, but as beautiful as was she didn't offer the guarantee that Lyra did. Lyra was Lyanna's own flesh and blood—if anyone could inspire Robert to throw Cersei out with the rubbish, it was she. But now that Lyra had arrived, Renly felt nothing but guilt. He hadn't expected to actually _like_ the Stark girl. She was clever and daring and leagues more interesting than any other maiden in the kingdom, and she certainly didn't deserve to be treated as a pawn. _Perhaps we should have gone with Margaery, after all._

"You're having doubts, aren't you?" Loras charged.

"I'm not having doubts—"

"No, but you don't want to go through with it. At least not with Lyra."

Renly said nothing. He didn't have to—Loras could see right through him.

"It must be done," Loras insisted. "We have no other option now." He stormed off, and Renly was left with a sudden sinking feeling that he had made a grave mistake bringing Lyra to King's Landing.

* * *

"Well, the dragon skulls sound horrid, but Lord Renly sounds lovely," Sansa Stark dreamily sighed. That morning a raven had arrived from King's Landing bearing a letter from Lyra, and Sansa, Arya, Jon, and Theon had all gathered around Robb in the Great Hall at Winterfell to hear it read aloud. Of course, Sansa had fixated on the passages featuring Lyra's betrothed. "I hope I get to marry a lord as handsome and kind as him one day."

"Oh don't worry, Sansa," Theon said. "I'm sure Lord Stark will find a nice mountain chieftain to ship you off to."

Robb lightly shoved Theon for the jest. Sansa scowled. "Better than a _Greyjoy_," she muttered.

"Who _cares_ about Lord Renly?" Arya outburst. "Lyra's made friends with the Imp! Why doesn't she say anything about his tail?"

"I don't think Lord Tyrion has a tail, Arya," Robb returned with a grin. "Those are just stories."

Arya was thoroughly disappointed to hear that. "Well that's _boring_. I thought she'd made friends with a monster!"

"Who says she hasn't," Jon brusquely returned. "It sounds like she doesn't miss Winterfell at all."

Robb frowned at the pages; it certainly did sound that way. Little more than a month had passed since Lyra had set off for the capital, but to him it felt like she had been gone an eternity. He wondered when he'd get to see his twin sister again, if ever at all.

"Well _I_ wouldn't miss it, either," Sansa announced. "I'd trade Winterfell for King's Landing in a heartbeat."

"Don't say things you do not truly mean, my child. Especially when you have no clue what the consequences might be." They all turned as Lady Catelyn entered the hall. Little Rickon was in her arms, and she wore a grave look on her thin face. Sansa paled.

"Yes, mother," she sheepishly returned. Catelyn's eyes lingered on her, but then she spotted the parchment in Robb's hands.

"Is that letter from Lyra?"

Robb swallowed a lump in his throat. Lyra had mentioned in her writing that she hadn't yet penned a response to the letter their mother had sent. Nay—she had said she couldn't find the words to write to her. "Yes," he answered. "It arrived this morning."

Catelyn's expression hardened. There was a deep sorrow in her eyes. "Go find your brother," she ordered of Robb; she could only mean Bran. "I fear he's climbing the broken tower again." She turned on her heel and left, and the Great Hall was thrown into a stony silence. Lady Catelyn Stark had not been herself since Lyra had gone, and even Arya could see it.

* * *

Lyra sat perched on her bed, reading. This time it was _The Conquest of Dorne_, a firsthand account of the invasion of Dorne written by King Daeron I Targaryen himself. Tyrion had recommended it, and it was a bloody but quick read—she had only begun not an hour before and was already halfway finished. Indeed, she didn't intend to put it down until it was done.

But, unexpectedly, there was a knock on her chamber door.

Lyra hesitated. She was already in her bedclothes, and she hadn't a clue who it could be at this time of night. But they knocked again, and so she covered herself in a robe and answered the door. She was quite surprised to find that it was the king.

"You Grace," she proclaimed. She wrapped her robe tighter about her. Maybe it was the influence of her earlier conversation with Tyrion, but she feared Robert's purposes for this late-night visit were anything but innocent.

"I'm sorry to bother you at such a late hour, Lyra," he began. "I hope I didn't wake you."

"Oh, no," Lyra shook her head. "I was just reading."

Robert nodded. Lyra gripped the door as his gaze lingered. She didn't know what to do or say. She almost didn't even want to breathe.

"Well, I wish this visit was under better circumstances, but I wanted to be the one to tell you." He looked her dead in the eye, and Lyra felt fear seize her at his next words. "Your uncle has passed."


End file.
